


Calling and calling, so cold and alone

by Ferrera



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Needy Sam Winchester, Pre-Series, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-01-01 04:49:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18328946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrera/pseuds/Ferrera
Summary: Just a little experiment of mine. Please note that I didn't tag this as well as I usually do. I don't wanna spoil the whole thing. Thanks to the lovelywritinginthesecrettreesfor beta reading this and really helping me improve.Title's from My Father's House by Bruce Springsteen. I'm so sorry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little experiment of mine. Please note that I didn't tag this as well as I usually do. I don't wanna spoil the whole thing. Thanks to the lovely [writinginthesecrettrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writinginthesecrettrees) for beta reading this and really helping me improve.
> 
> Title's from My Father's House by Bruce Springsteen. I'm so sorry.

  
Sam feels Dad’s gaze gliding from his shaggy long hair to the loose collar of his too-big tank top, hanging off one shoulder, down to his ridden-up gym shorts and skinny legs. Dad’s eyes come to a rest on his pale, smooth skin, and Sam spreads his thighs a little wider.  
  
“You look like a damn skank,” Dad comments. _Language_ , Sam hears Dean saying in his head. _And watch your tone._  
  
It’d be easy to just pick a fight. There’d been a lot of fights between him and Dad, lately, up to the point where it would drive Dean insane, where he’d come in between them, tell Dad _let_ _him be, he’s just a kid_ and say _c’mon Sammy, that’s enough_ , before dragging Sam away.  
  
Dean’s not here, though.  
  
Sam can’t help but smile to himself. Dean’s not here, but Sam’s not really looking to start a fight. Fighting won’t do much good. Sam finally gets that now. _Childish_ , he tells his younger self. _You were so childish_. Like Dean said— _just a kid_.  
  
It _is_ hard not to pick a fight, though. A bunch of bitchy replies run through his head, and he has to bite his tongue to keep them from slipping out. _It’s summer, Dad. Take it easy. You look like you’re burning up. Why don’t you take off some clothes yourself?_  
  
Dad’s dressed in jeans and a flannel, even though it’s the hottest damn summer Sam’s ever experienced at thirteen. No undershirt though, Sam notices, glancing at the hint of chest hair peeking out where he’s got a couple buttons undone.  
  
“No girl would be allowed to leave the house lookin’ like you do lately, paradin’ around like that.”  
  
“I’m not _parading around_ ,” Sam can’t help but retort immediately, defensive. “I’m not even allowed to leave the damn motel by myself. Hardly anyone gets to see. I’m only allowed to walk to the damn pool.” He trails a hand from his knee up to the soft inside of his thigh, lets it rest just below the hem of his shorts. Stares back at Dad, refusing to crumble under his dark gaze.  
  
Dad gets up from his chair, taking a couple steps towards where Sam’s slumped on the couch, legs still spread wide.  
  
“What the hell do you think you’re playin’ at, son,” Dad says, his voice harsh. He stands there, towering over Sam, his shoulders tense, hands clenched like he wants to do nothing more than grab Sam and shove him around, knock some sense into him.  
  
Somehow, he never does. He’s got perfect self-control, Sam’s got to give him that. Gonna be damn hard to make him break. Sam’s gotta play it right.  
  
He sits up a little, his tank top slipping further down his shoulder. He’s at eye level with Dad’s crotch now. He licks his lips before he looks back up.  
  
“Dunno what you’re talking about,” he says, looking up at Dad though his eyelashes. He pulls the collar of his top up, covering himself again, but it slides right back off.  
  
He sees Dad clenching his fists briefly, sees the muscles in his forearms shift.  
  
He’s never once hit Sam. He’s never hit Dean either. Neither of them receives the physical consequences of Dad’s anger and frustration, but only Dean gets the fruits of his love and affection. Sam tries not to be jealous, but it’s just not fair. Dean gets all the affectionate touches— a pat on his shoulder, a hand resting on his neck, little squeezes to his side, a hand lingering on his thigh. It’s _not fair_ , dammit. Maybe Sam’s not as skilled and competent as Dean is, not as strong and definitely not as pretty, but he’s smart, tries to help by reading the lore on whatever Dad and Dean are hunting, he never complains about driving long distances or being left alone at night anymore, he keeps their motel rooms tidy and he takes care of Dean and Dad after tough hunts as best as he can. He deserves Dad’s attention _too_.  
  
“You know damn well what you’re playin’ at,” Dad says, eyes gliding down to Sam’s exposed chest, the collar of his tank top hanging so far off his shoulder now his nipple must be visible.  
  
Fighting isn’t gonna give him what he wants, though, that much he knows now. Fighting only creates distance, no matter how close up in each other’s personal space they get. Dad’s not gonna lash out and then make up for it by kissing it better. So here he is, seeking his last resort.  
  
Sam stands up, right in Dad’s personal space, only a couple inches between them. He’s still nowhere near as tall as Dad, has to tilt his head back to properly look up at him. Dad’s dark eyes follow the path down the exposed column of his throat, watching as Sam swallows hard.  
  
“ _Sam_ ,” Dad warns, not stepping back, but not leaning in either.  
  
Sam fists his hands in Dad’s flannel and tugs, tries to pull him closer, but Dad’s tense, can’t be moved, his body solid as a rock. Sam presses his palms flat to Dad’s chest instead, tries to push him back, but Dad won’t move, just stands there, looking at Sam with a hint of disdain in his eyes. Sam feels smaller by the second, desperation rising in his chest, his throat closing up. He looks back up at Dad, feels his bottom lip curling into a pout, tears welling up in his eyes, and then something in Dad’s expression softens, and his body unwinds a little. The anger in his eyes melts away, and then he just looks— confused, annoyed maybe, tired of Sam’s crap, and shit, _no_ , Sam can’t have that, can’t have Dad telling him to stop being a brat and then walk away, leave him hanging like this.  
  
“Dad,” Sam rushes, panicking, pushing against Dad’s chest, “I just need— just let me,” and Dad’s eyebrows scrunch together, lips parting like he’s about to protest, but Sam pushes harder and then Dad stops fighting him, lets Sam him walk back to the bed, sits down on the mattress when Sam whispers _down_ , doesn’t push Sam away when he straddles his lap.  
  
“What the hell, kid,” Dad murmurs, but his hands come up around Sam’s waist, holding him steady. Sam can’t help but whimper at the feeling of his big, warm hands finally on him, his whole body tingling at the contact.  
  
“Sammy,” Dad says, sounding slightly concerned, “not hurting you, am I?” and Sam shakes his head furiously, no, no, not at all. He clutches his hands into Dad’s flannel, hides his face against his neck, breathing in the familiar smell of him.  
  
“What’s going on, kiddo?” Dad murmurs, but he keeps holding him, his hands so big and strong and solid around Sam’s small waist.  
  
“Please,” Sam whispers against Dad’s shoulder, unable to look him in the eyes. He twists his fingers tighter into Dad’s flannel, pulls himself closer to his broad chest. “Just touch me.”  
  
Dad tenses a little at his words, but he keeps his hands on Sam, doesn’t push him away, and Sam’s thudding heart jumps, hopeful.  
  
“Please, Dad,” he murmurs, rubbing his nose along Dad’s neck, so desperate for contact, and then Dad’s hands start moving on top of the sweaty fabric of his tank top, up to his ribs and back down to his narrow waist, up and down, up and down. It’s calming, comforting, makes his hammering heart slow down a little, and Sam relaxes against Dad’s chest. Dad says “shh, Sammy,” and suddenly he feels like a little kid again, sitting on his dad’s lap, nestling against him, Dad’s hands on him, sure and safe.  
  
Dad keeps running his hands up and down Sam’s sides, lets Sam continue to rub his nose along his neck while making tiny little humming sounds. After a while, he moves down to his hips, squeezes a little before placing his hands on Sam’s bare thighs. Sam whimpers at the feeling of those rough, warm hands on his bare skin. Dad’s hands are so big, so wide, and Sam’s thighs are still so skinny, it feels like Dad could just enclose his thighs completely if he tried. Sam leans back a little, glancing down at Dad’s tan, hairy hands on his pale, smooth skin. The veins in the back of his hands stand out, even more so when he stars to apply pressure, rubbing and kneading Sam’s thighs. Sam nestles back against Dad’s chest before a moan slips out of his mouth, buries his face against Dad’s neck again, the sounds that escape Sam muffled against Dad’s skin.  
  
“Sammy,” Dad murmurs, placing a warm, heavy hand on the nape of Sam’s bare neck, “what’s up with you, kiddo?” but Sam can’t answer, can only melt into Dad’s touch, whimpering and sighing softly at the sensation of Dad’s hand on his sensitive skin.  
  
Dad rubs his thumb along the nape of his neck, soothing, but it sends shivers all the way down his spine and he squirms in Dad’s lap, fingers spasming a little, flexing and unflexing in the fabric of Dad’s flannel as Sam’s body tries to get used all the touches he went so long without.  
  
Dean’s love and affection used to make up for the lack of attention from Dad. Dean used to cuddle and pamper him all the time, back when he was still a kid. Back when _Dean_ was still a kid. He used to bathe Sam, rub him clean with a ragged handcloth, cheap soap and lots of love. He used to squeeze Sam’s cheeks and kiss them when they’d gotten all red. They slept in the same bed and when Sam couldn’t sleep, afraid of the monsters under his bed or out there, Dean would pull Sam close, stroke his hair and let Sam nuzzle his chest. But Dean’s seventeen now, and he hardly touches Sam anymore. All he cares about are girls and sex.  
  
Sam’s not gonna admit it to him, but he misses Dean touching him, misses it so much he swears he feels his skin ache with the absence of Dean’s hands on him.  
  
Dad’s hands are still on him, one hand stroking along his side, the other on the nape of his neck, a warm, soothing pressure. Sam feels better than he’s felt in a long, long time. He feels _so_ _much_ , and it’s overwhelming, mind-numbingly good, but at the same time it’s not enough.  
  
“Just—” Sam says, leaning back a little, lifting the hem of his tank top, “here,” and Dad hesitates, his eyes gliding down to Sam’s bare stomach, then back up, looking straight at Sam. Sam has hardly felt this exposed before, but he tries not to avert his eyes, lets Dad look, lets him really see him. His need, his deprivation must be visible in his eyes, because Dad looks at him in earnest, then puts his hands under Sam’s top and slides them up his waist, rough hands warm and sure on his tender skin. It’s so good, so damn good he shudders at the contact, his skin tingling under Dad’s hands. Dad moves a hand to his tummy and Sam feels his muscles jumping under Dad’s touch. He starts to stroke softly, and Sam tries to swallow the moans and gasps bubbling up inside him, but they just spill out of him, uncontrollable.  
  
“Christ, kiddo,” Dad murmurs, sounding a little taken aback, a little reluctant, but he can’t stop touching Sam, Sam can’t have that, not now, no no _no_.  
  
“Keep touching me,” Sam whimpers, desperation clear in his voice, and Dad murmurs “shhh, Sammy”, keeps moving his hands under Sam’s tank top, roaming over Sam’s flat, almost hollow stomach, up to his ribs, to his sides and down the small of his back.  
  
The feeling of Dad’s warm, strong hands on his bare skin is making him feel delirious. He’s squirming and writhing in Dad’s lap, feeling like he’s completely losing control over his body. He’s panting hard, whimpering whenever Dad’s hands come back to his belly, the most desperate, pathetic noises spilling out of him even though he’s trying so hard to keep them all locked inside. He’s trying _so_ _damn_ _hard_ , but then Dad says “it’s okay, kiddo,” his voice soft, “just let it all out,” and Sam stops holding back. The most shameful sounds spill out of him, but Dad doesn’t stop touching him, strong hands roaming all over his belly, his waist, his back, so it must be okay.  
  
Sam’s completely losing himself, leaning into Dad to get as much as he can, still desperate for more. “I need,” Sam whispers, cheeks heating up, “I need— Dad, please, touch my chest,” and Dad slides his hands up higher, broad palms completely covering his skinny chest. It’s so good, Dad’s hands caging him in, so firm and solid. Sam mewls at the feeling of Dad’s calloused thumbs rubbing over his sensitive nipples. He’s writhing in Dad’s lap, desperate for more friction. He grinds down on Dad a little, wanting to rub all of himself against Dad.  
  
“Easy, kiddo,” Dad murmurs, but Sam can’t slow down, can’t stop moving, needs to feel Dad everywhere. Dad’s palming his chest like Sam’s got little tits and it’s so good he could cry. Instead, he grinds down harder, rocking feverishly in Dad’s lap. It’s only when Dad groans _fuck_ , _kiddo_ , that Sam realizes he has started to get hard, his half-hard dick rubbing against Dad’s stomach through his thin shorts and boxers. He feels his cheeks heating up, sweat breaking out all over his body. God, he didn’t think he’d— When he’d pictured his plans, imagining how he’d get Dad to touch him, he hadn’t thought past the promise of Dad’s hands on his bare skin, stroking and soothing.  
  
He doesn’t know what to do— he wants, _needs_ to keep moving, but he knows this isn’t okay, far from it, and shame washing over him, pooling low in his gut.  
  
“Dad,” he pants, hips stuttering, “I’m sorry, _oh_ ,” but Dad keeps dragging his hands all over Sam’s chest, down to his belly and back up. “Shhh, Sammy,” he murmurs, cupping the back of Sam’s head and bringing Sam’s face back to the hollow of his neck. “It’s okay, kiddo.” Sam buries his face there, continues grinding down as Dad cups his chest again, fingers rubbing over his nipples. Sam’s panting hot and wet against Dad’s neck, rubbing himself against Dad again, his dick growing harder in his boxers.  
  
Sam’s touched himself before. Hell, _Dean_ taught him how to touch himself, showed him how. Sam remembers being all tense, afraid to do something wrong, body strung tight. Remembers being ashamed of his skinny little body next to Dean’s, looking so tall and muscular and beautiful. Getting hard wasn’t a problem— he had been hard from the moment Dean showed him how he jerked himself. But when he copied Dean’s movements, shy and unsure, he just couldn’t get himself off, unable to let go, not until Dean helped him, put his big hand over Sam’s and they stroked him together.  
  
When Sam touched himself again, the days and weeks and months after, it was never as good. Nowhere near as good as Dean’s big, warm hand covering his while he pulled Sam close to his chest with his other arm.  
  
Nowhere near as good as sitting in Dad’s lap with his hands all over him.  
  
“Off,” Sam whimpers, “wanna take my shirt off, need it off,” and Dad lets go of him, leans back a little so Sam has a bit of space to pull his tank top over his head and drop it to the ground. He snuggles against Dad again and Dad wraps his arms around him, pulls Sam closer. Sam shudders at the feeling of his hard dick rubbing against Dad’s stomach, lets out another shivery moan.  
  
“Christ, what am I supposed to do with you, kiddo,” Dad murmurs into his hair, but it’s affectionate and he’s not letting go of Sam, so Sam keeps moving in his lap, keeps rubbing himself against Dad.  
  
“Touch my chest again,” Sam pants, “Dad, please,” and then Dad’s hand are back there, broad palms cupping his chest, rubbing over his sensitive nipples.  
  
Sam’s almost bare in Dad’s lap, feels so vulnerable and exposed but so good, engulfed by Dad, firm hands roaming across his chest, sliding down his sides, cupping his narrow waist before sliding up his tummy, back to his chest. He feels so safe, so good, almost ecstatic. He cries out when Dad starts thumbing his nipples, clutches his hands back into Dad’s flannel to pull himself closer to Dad, grinding down on him frantically, and then Dad murmurs “it’s okay, Sammy, just let go,” just like Dean said when he touched Sam, and Sam comes, creaming his boxers and his shorts as he writhes and shudders in Dad’s lap. He pants and whimpers as he tries to control his body, tries to stop himself from shaking so much, but Dad murmurs “shhh, just ride it out, kiddo,” and Sam unravels, lets go.  
  
Dad holds him close as while Sam comes down, not touching his chest anymore, just keeping Sam against his solid, firm body. He’s got one arm wrapped tight around Sam’s waist, strokes Sam’s hair with his free hand while he murmurs _it’s okay, kiddo_ , over and over again, until the shaking of Sam’s body has reduced to a fine tremble. His breathing’s slowed down and he’s not panting anymore, but he can’t quite hold back the whimpering little sounds still escaping his mouth every now and then. He feels exhausted, mind hazy, body still spasming a little. The realization of what just happened starts to wash over him, and before he can even try to stop himself, he’s crying, big fat tears soaking Dad’s flannel where he’s hiding his face against Dad’s shoulder.  
  
“God, Sammy,” Dad murmurs, trying to pull him back a little, making him look up, but Sam tightens his arms around Dad’s neck, refusing to let go. His body’s shaking ceaselessly again, overcome with emotions and exhaustion. He doesn’t even remember the last time he sat in Dad’s lap crying like this. He’s been trying to keep up appearance for so long, wanting to show Dad and Dean he’s just as hard and tough as them, trying to hide how much he truly needs their love. Trying to hide how he really feels, just like Dean.  
  
God, _Dean_. Dean can’t know. Sam couldn’t face him if he knew.   
  
“You can’t tell Dean,” Sam stutters through his tears, “please, Dad, don’t tell him.”  
  
Dad shushes him, keeps stroking his hair, wraps him up in his arms even tighter. “God, Sammy,” he says, and Sam feels him shaking his head.  
  
“I mean it,” Sam says, voice almost breaking, and Dad shushes him again.  
  
“Don’t worry, kiddo,” he murmurs. He brushes Sam’s hair back and plants a quick kiss to his forehead. “I won’t tell your brother.”  
  
They sit like that for a while, Sam all curled up in Dad’s lap, letting himself be cuddled and taken care of like a little kid.  
  
“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dad says after a while. “I know it’s my fault, kiddo.”  
  
Sam isn’t really sure what he means, but at least Dad doesn’t blame him, so that’s— that’s good. He wriggles in Dad’s lap a little. He feels pretty gross. He’s all sweaty and his boxers and gym shorts are soaked, but he doesn’t want to let go of Dad.  
  
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Dad murmurs, gesturing to the mess in Sam’s shorts, and Sam blushes furiously. “Don’t be ashamed,” Dad says, then ruffles his hair.  
  
“We’ll get you cleaned up, then you go get your swimming trunks and we’ll go down to the pool, okay?”  
  
That’s— that’s okay. They’ll cool down and relax a bit and Dad will still be close. Maybe Dean will come by later and they’ll pull him into the pool before he gets a chance to change into his swimming trunks. It’ll be good. The three of them— that’s good.  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

To the people who subscribed to this fic-- I hope you'll be pleased to hear I'm continuing this. In fact, this was only the backstory to a bigger fic I planned on writing all along, written from Dean's POV. It can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425706/chapters/46230982).

I didn't know how else to reach out to you, so I added this 'chapter'.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm really hoping I'm encouraging more people to write John/Sam or John/Dean. I'm desperate for more fic. Anyway, let me know what you think. You can find me on [tumblr](http://www.saintedevote.tumblr.com) as well :)


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